Wouldn't you say, <br />Wouldn't you say: one day, <br />With a little more time or a little more patience, one might <br />Disentangle for separate, deliberate, slow delight <br />One of the moment's hundred strands, unfray <br />Beginnings from endings, this from that, survey <br />Say a square inch of the ground one stands on, touch <br />Part of oneself or a leaf or a sound (not clutch <br />Or cuff or bruise but touch with finger-tip, ear- <br />Tip, eyetip, creeping near yet not too near); <br />Might take up life and lay it on one's palm <br />And, encircling it in closeness, warmth and calm, <br />Let it lie still, then stir smooth-softly, and <br />Tendril by tendril unfold, there on one's hand ... <br /> <br />One might examine eternity's cross-section <br />For a second, with slightly more patience, more time for reflection? <br /> <br /> <br />Submitted by Stephen Fryer<br /><br />Arthur Seymour John Tessimond<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/one-almost-might/
